It was the shove, she later realized, that saved her life. Behind her, Bolan had emerged from hiding, leveling his pistol at the human targets, and she would have been directly in his line of fire if she had not been thrust aside so violently. The Hispanic gunmen saw Death coming, tried to beat the Reaper's time, but they were still off balance from the scuffle on the threshold, tracking with their weapons while the soldier was already squeezing off. It was no contest, and Rebecca watched them die.
The first round drilled her attacker through the forehead, exiting in a crimson mist that etched a grisly pattern on her wall. The dead man tumbled backward, jarring his companion's aim and giving Bolan time to place another round on target, this one drilling through the taller gunman's chest and slamming against the doorframe, pinning him in place while Bolan put another slug between his eyes.
Rebecca felt her stomach heaving, casting up its meager contents, choking off a startled scream as number two collapsed across her legs and briefly pinned her to the floor. She kicked out, desperately, and freed herself before Mack Bolan had a chance to reach her. He was bending down to offer her his hand when they were mutually startled by the back door's sudden and explosive opening. It slammed against the wall, the doorknob buried deep in plaster, and a crouching figure sprang across the threshold, sweeping left and right with what appeared to be a submachine gun.
Bolan was already pivoting to face the unexpected enemy, releasing Becky's hand, his weapon rising into target acquisition much too late, when thunder seemed to rip the corridor apart. Their adversary was immediately airborne, hurtling toward Bolan, spinning into rough collision with a wall and toppling to the carpet. Smears of blood stained the plaster where his shoulders had made contact with the wall.
They waited, frozen — Bolan in his combat crouch, Dr. Kent still on her knees beside him. He was poised to fire as yet another silhouette blocked out the doorway's light... and then he recognized the lawman's uniform.
It was Grant Vickers, with a shotgun cradled in his arms.
"You two all right?" he asked, and tension underlay his normal drawl.
"We're fine," she answered, glancing up at Bolan, leaning on him as she scrambled to her feet. The soldier stood erect, but he kept his automatic pistol in his hand, prepared for anything.
"We're getting by," the Executioner agreed.
The radio had told him that it was a hundred in the shade, but Enoch Snyder could not find a patch of shade up on the roof of Bud's garage. Some of the other structures lining Main Street might be taller, and they might have offered better cover, but he had been limited in time as well as in mobility. The laundry sack that covered his Garand would not fool anyone, and so he had been forced to scuttle like a pack rat through the alleys, ducking out of sight whenever anybody showed their face along his route. He dared not cross the street to find a better vantage point, with all those hostiles on the prowl. And it struck Old Enoch as poetic justice that the wrath of God should fall upon Bud's killers from the rooftop of his own garage. It just felt right.
Before they spotted him, he might have time to crank a whole clip off. Once he was seen, his fate was a foregone conclusion, but they would not take him easily, not like they took his friend. By God, he meant to make them dance before they brought him down, and no mistake.
His sunglasses were old and scratched, providing some protection from the glare but hindering his aim. He took them off and tossed them back across his shoulder, knowing that he would not need them anymore. Old Enoch waited, squinting through his lashes until he had grown accustomed to the light, and then he poked his head above the cornice for a quick look.
Downrange, the hunters were already kicking doors, ransacking shops and homes in search of their elusive prey. Old Enoch didn't know who they were hunting, but he wished the man well. He hoped they never found the poor, doomed bastard, that he got away scot-free and left them running empty circles in the desert. In the meantime, Snyder had a present for them, and he did not plan to keep the sons of bitches waiting any longer.
Scooting forward, so that he could rest his elbows on the cornice of the roof, Old Enoch eased off the M-1's safety and raised it to his shoulder, nestling his cheek against the stock the way a man might rest his head against a woman's shoulder.
Two gunners were emerging from the Laundromat, disgusted after learning that the place contained nothing but dust. They were jawing back and forth, unmindful of the danger they were in, when Enoch sighted quickly, easily, and shot the taller man in the face. You didn't need a fancy telescopic sight to see his forehead blossom scarlet, scalp and brains exploding as if the guy were snorting cherry bombs.
The dead guy's partner did a hasty double-take and dug a pistol from underneath his shirttails. It was far too little, much too late, and Enoch knew the bastard never heard the round that killed him, punching through his chest at more than a thousand feet per second, slamming him against a lamppost, spinning him around to drop down on the pavement.
Two for two, and six rounds left before he needed to reload. He scanned the street, alive with gunners now as they responded to the sound of gunfire. The muffled sound of shots came somewhere from the south, and Enoch wondered if somebody else had found the courage to resist, or if the bastards had begun to murder hostages.
In the long run it didn't affect Snyder's stand. He wasn't going anywhere until they hauled him down, and from his crow's nest, he had ample targets. It was just like a goddamned turkey shoot. Except that this time, all those goddamned turkeys could shoot back, which at least kept the contest interesting.
Lining up another target, Enoch started squeezing off in rapid fire. And watched the bastards dance.
17
Luis Rivera pressed his face against the diner's window, shrugging off Camacho's hand as Hector sought to pull him back from the expanse of glass. From outside, the echoes slightly muffled, came another burst of heavy-caliber gunfire. As he watched, one of Rivera's pistoleros took a shoulder hit that knocked him sprawling, leaving him to wriggle for the cover of a nearby car like some amphibian deprived of water.
There had been shooting as soon as the sweep had begun. Pistol shots at first, sedately muted, and he had assumed they marked the deaths of the townspeople. Almost immediately, from a different quarter, the reports were followed by a shotgun blast, and he was not so sure. Then came the rifle fire, and he was certain: his forces were under attack.
From where he stood, Rivera could see two bodies lying in the street, as well as the wounded gunner who had made his way to cover. He would have to act on the assumption that there might be other losses, but he dared not falter now, or he would lose momentum, lose it all.
His other guns were under cover now, a few of them returning fire in the direction of a rooftop, somewhere to his left, beyond Rivera's line of sight. No doubt they had already found the sniper's nest, and they would root him out before he could do further damage.
Sudden hope was kindled in Rivera's breast. Suppose the sniper was none other than his quarry, cornered now and fighting for his life? It would make everything so very simple; kill the man, then turn in righteous rage and kill the town that had sheltered him. So easy.
But the sniper had not fired those muffled pistol shots, the shotgun blast had preceded his initial fusillade. Assuming that Rivera's quarry had decided on a last-ditch stand, there still remained a possibility of allies — or of locals acting independently, in the defense of families and homes. If the resistance should begin to spread....